


The Nightmare Operative

by fetching



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fetching/pseuds/fetching
Summary: London–post WWIFeyre Archeron cannot remember the last time she hasnt had a nightmare. But some memories seem so real when they break you.Rhysand can't sleep at night when all he can hear is gunfire and artillery. So he throws himself into the dirty work back at home.After the war, Feyre and Rhysand meet under unpleasant circumstances–fighting for business in places the Police can’t control–the darkest parts of London.But, threats are everywhere, and finally, they have to learn to work together–to save their city, their families, and eventually, each other.Inspired by the show Peaky Blinders.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy :)

Feyre Archeron's heels clacked on the floor of the old church on Kennigston Church Street, droplets of water falling down her face.

When had it _not_ rained in London?

She shook out her damp hair, still long despite the new trend–the short bob– that was taking over the entire country.

She slid into a pew, leaving her coat on. The wood groaned, proving its age–St. Mary Abbots was old.

Feyre wasn't religious. She never had been. But it wasn't something she'd ever had time to think about, time to consider.

No, she'd always been on the move.

At last she breathed, letting a long sigh escape her. She slid her hands from her gloves, running then through her hair.

A loud, harsh, and ugly cough sounded from behind her, leaving her hands frozen in her light brown locks.

She had thought the church was empty. It almost always was at this time.

She dared look behind her. Sitting across the isle and a couple rows behind her, was a woman, no older than 60.

She sat with her hands clasped together in her lap, and she stared unnervingly into Feyre's eyes.

"It's a little late to be here, love", the woman said. Her voice was brittle, as if she were holding back from crying.

Feyre had no idea what to say to the stranger, and thankfully, she didn't have the time to worry, as the woman spoke again.

"What brings a pretty young women as you are here, tonight?"

Startled by her question, Feyre looked the woman up and down again. She wore a thin and worn wool coat, and her skirt had a hole.

She was a hard worker, Feyre could gather. Her hands proved it. They were thick, and despite them resting, folded in her lap, she could make out the callouses on her palms.

The words came out before she could stop them, but then again, it was never hard for Feyre to tell the truth.

"Because I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Her voice seemed to echo off the walls of the church, leaving her feeling vulnerable. "Why are you here?"

For a long moment, the woman was silent. Feyre watched as her eyes glazed over. Bloody hell, what had she done? The woman looked out of it.

And then, her lips moved and her croaky voice spoke. "Because all my boys are dead."

When she registered the words, Feyre felt her body starting to go numb.

She didn’t need to ask what the woman meant. It was obvious. The army had taken them all.

A whole generation. The boys in London who would never come home. She’d hear the weeping of mothers down the hall, when they got the letters.

She’d pretend not to notice how quiet the streets in London were now, or the posters plastered on lampposts and on walls.

“I’m sorry”, she found her self saying. She had turned away from the woman and was facing the alter of the church. “I imagine it’s difficult.”

She heard the woman sigh, deep and long. “They’re dead and gone. My boys are gone.”

Feyre listened as the woman continued to whisper. _Gone gone gone._

Finally, as the woman stopped, Feyre stood to leave. She was unsure of why she’d come in there in the first place.

Moving to leave, she paused in front of the woman’s row.

“They’re resting”, she said, softly.

And it was true. Anyone who thought death wasn’t a relief from the fighting, needed to educate themselves.

Because Feyre had been there.

She’d killed a man in France, and still couldn’t seem to get his blood off her hands.

 

_3 months later._

 

Feyre carefully slid into a booth, removing her blue hat.

A girl with short blond hair and knowing brown eyes sat in front of her, clutching a white envelope tightly to her chest.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come,” she said, smirking.

“Shut up, Mor”, she muttered, looking around. People loved to eavesdrop these days.

“And won’t you cut your bloody hair? Look around, Feyre. Your stealing all the attention from the lads in here.”

It was true. Half of the boys standing at the bar were looking in her direction.

Feyre shrugged it off.

“Do you have what I need?”

Mor nodded, pushing the envelope across the table.

“Amren wrote it. I didn’t bother to look at what it said. Probably another threat. But if you ask me, she’d better back off. They’ve just got back. God knows what they’re...er, you know...”

“Yes”, Feyre mumbled, grabbing the paper. “But by the looks of it, they’ve been busy.”

Mor nodded, but her brow furrowed. “You’ve never actually gotten the pleasure of meeting them, have you?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“ _Shit_ , Feyre. Look, I don’t know if your ready...”

Feyre scoffed. “I could handle bloodthirsty men in France, Mor. I think I can handle them now too.”

Mor nodded, cautiously. “But can you handle the broken ones?”

Feyre shut her eyes. She didn’t like to think about it. Of what the war had done to people.

At last she caught Mor’s glance. “I can try.”

Mor nodded, pursing her lips. “Remember: don’t give up personal information. Only your identity, and let me remind you, your fake one.”

“I know, I know.”

“Alright then. It’s a risky business, Feyre. So stay on your toes.”

The blond girl patted her arm, and Feyre stood, pulling a way. She tucked the envelope into her black coat.

“I always am.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walk to the Burning Garde was long. It was across the city, and by the time she reached the random Pub, it was filled with the nights most devastating people.

Most of them were the factory workers, covered in soot and sweat. She could make out the soldiers too, with their eyes glazed over and the grips on their mugs so tight the knuckles of their bloodied hands were white.

And then, her gaze fell on the door in the back. She made her way, pushing past drunk people stumbling blindly, until she reached it.

A tall man with a cap coving his eyes stepped in front of. “What’re ya doin, Miss,” he grumbled.

Feyre said nothing as she looked up at him from under her hat. She soundlessly pulled the envelope from her coat, at when he saw it, he stepped away, nodding.

He turned to open the door, pushing her inside.

The room was dim, with a circular wooden table in the centre. Surrounding the table were men, who all snapped their heads in her direction.

“Oi”, one of them called. “What the in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”

She ignored him, and made her way to the table. She slammed the envelope down.

They were all silent.

“It’s a message”, Feyre said, her voice low. “For the one called Rhysand.”

She watched as the men turned to look at a man standing in the corner, a cigarette in his mouth.

A man was an overstatement. He looked only 20.

But, he commanded the attention, and it was all too clear to her. He ran the show.

He pushed himself off the wall, strolling to the table with his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“You should get out, if you know what’s good for you”, he said. “You are a fool for coming here.”

His voice was deep and yet so...quiet. Like every word was calculated.

“If doing my job makes me a fool, then so be it”, she muttered, taking her hat off. “But you should be thanking me. I’ve stayed quiet.”

“Shut your fuckin mouth”, one of the men to his right spat.

Rhysand held up a hand, and the man closed his mouth.

“ _ **Don’t**_ speak to her like that.”

There it was again, that quiet and dark voice.

She looked at him in the eye, still daring to talk. “People won’t always stay quiet, you know. Sometimes, justice won’t have a price. People in grief tend not to care about how many pounds you give them.”

Some foreign emotion flickered in his eye, but I was gone before she could register what it was.

She decided her business was done, and turned to leave. She’d given them the message, and that was all she would do. The room started to get bloodier and bloodier, the longer she looked at the men inside it.

_All of them. They’ve all fought._

She turned to the door, to open it, but froze as the man called Rhysand spoke to her.

“I could kill you”, he said softly, as if it wasn’t a threat. “I hope you know that.”

She didn’t look back at him. “I know.”

He was silent.

“But you won’t”, Feyre said, walking out the door.

She left before he could say anything else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Bloody hell._

For the most dangerous man in London, he seemed like a dramatic prick.

Perhaps it was the fact that she could see the pain behind his blue eyes. As if she could see the torment of what the war had done to him.

Little did she know he could see it in hers as well.


	2. Chapter 2

"How'd it go", Mor asked, holding a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen of her townhouse. It was late by the time Feyre had gotten back.

Feyre sat down at the tiny kitchen table. "Not sure. But I think I got the message across."

"What did they say?"

Feyre reached for the bottle, taking a swig straight from the top. She never drank much, and the liquid was a rude reminder.

"Easy there, Fey. What were they like?" Mor moved to the empty chair in front of her.

Feyre looked up, not meeting her eyes. "Rude. They were rude. But it's nothing new."

"How was Rhys?"

"He's your cousin", said Feyre. "Shouldn't you be accustomed to his behavior?"

"Keep in mind that I haven't seen him in years. Lest you forget, he's been in France."

"I know, I know. He was quiet. But not shy. Deadly quiet."

Mor tapped her chin. "I bet he's onto us."

Feyre scoffed. "Not _us_. All I agreed to do was be your messenger. Nothing more. I don't want any part of whatever operation you've got going on."

"I know that–"

"And besides", Feyre continued. "You've not even let me know what exactly you and everyone else who works for you does. I feel like I'm blindly serving you, Mor."

Mor sat back, shaking her head. "I've already told you, Feyre. You need to trust me. You _can_ trust me. You've known me for over a decade. Does that not mean anything?"

Feyre took another swig, the whiskey burning her throat.

"I do trust you. I just want to know what you do."

"And I've told you", Mor said, grabbing the bottle as she stood. "We act as the law for these parts. God knows the coppers don't care about what goes on here."

"And?"

"What d'ya mean _'and_ ' ?"

"I'm almost 20, not 12. I know there's more."

Mor shook her head. "And...we also take care of business. Manage trade. Make sure people are in their place."

"Jesus Christ, this sounds like a gang."

" ** _It's not a bloody gang!"_**

Feyre jumped back at her words. Mor hardly yelled.

She watched tentatively as the blond ran a hand down her face. "I'm trying to help you, Feyre. I know, God, I know that since you got back from wherever it is you were, you haven't been the same. I can see it in the way you talk and move. So I thought giving you this job would give you something purposeful... but feel free to leave, I won’t stop you.”

Feyre was silent for a minute, and she felt rather small under the heavy gaze of Mor.

Then, she let her head sink into her hands.

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

No. She would not let those memories resurface. Not now.

She’d save them for the nighttime. When no one could see her break.

“Fey”, she heard Mor say.

But everything sounded distant to her, as if she were underwater.

She picked her head up. “I don’t want to leave,” she muttered.

Mor smiled. A sad one, but a smile none the less. “Good.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhysand walked through the morning drizzle to Morrigan’s House. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was getting played. He just knew his bloody cousin was using him for something.

He rubbed his face. Hell, he couldn’t sleep last night. Tossing and turning, trying to get the screams and gunfire out of his head was only half the problem.

The girl from the pub. The girl who had the audacity–and courage–to interrupt his meeting like that. And how she so carelessly got the last word. Watching her leave that night had made his blood boil.

But he had to admit, whoever this new spy was, he was intrigued.

“She’d look good by your side, Rhys”, Cassian had said after she’d left.

He wasn’t stupid. Anyone who looked at her was taken aback by her blue eyes and delicate features. And her hair....

Rhys shut his eyes. Christ, she was only a girl. And besides, as of right now, she was his enemy. Just because he and Mor were cousins, didn’t mean they were on good terms.

He strolled up to her front door. The modest townhouse was on a quiet lane, and seemingly innocent from the exterior. But as soon as he pushed open the front door, the facade dropped.

Except for a small table in the empty kitchen, the house was bare.

He stood in what would have been a drawing room, but only the fireplace stood out among the green walls.

“Mor”, he shouted. It’s was only 9. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

He heard footsteps and turned his head to the back of the kitchen. Descending the staircase was the girl from the night before.

_Fuck_.

“Can I help you?”

He hadn’t forgotten her voice either. It wasn’t the classic London accent. No, perhaps she hailed from somewhere north.

So intrigued, he asked.

“Where are you from?”

He watched as she looked him up and down her brows raising. “Depends. Why do you want to know?”

He clicked his tongue, trying to hide his smirk.

“Never-mind then. Is Morrigan here?”

He tried not to glare as the girl looked him up and down.

“No. She’s gone. Shall I take a message?”

Rhysand scoffed, moving to lean against the mantle of the fireplace. “Tell me....”

He didn’t know her name.

“It’s Camille”, she said, reading his mind.

But Rhys wasn’t an imbecile. Of course Mor had told her to lie.

“Don’t lie”, he said softly. “But whatever. So tell me, _Camille_ , what is it you do here? I’ve never seen you working with my cousin before.”

She pursed her lips. Instead of answering him, she made her way further into the small kitchen.

“Tea?”

Again, he scoffed. “Have you got Whiskey?”

She tensed. “It’s morning. I will not serve you Whiskey.”

He shuffled on his feet. “What a wonderful hostess you are.”

“This isn’t my house.”

“Then where is your house?”

As soon as he asked it, he regretted it. He was quick to note the flash of pain in her eyes, before she spoke.

“Gone.” She left it at that.

“I’ll wait until Mor gets back.”

The girl slammed the cabinet she’d opened. “She won’t be back for a couple days. Says she’s doing work up north.”

Rhys was appalled, and pressed on. “Do you even know what she does?”

She closed her eyes, turning to face him. “Yes or not?”

Rhysand looked to the ceiling. “I’ll just go.”

She didn’t say anything as he strolled back to the door.

Her turned back to her. “Be careful”, was all he said. Then he left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feyre watched him leave. To put it lightly, he was probably the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

But, the fact that he was most likely a dangerous lead-man overtook that. She was left unsettled by the way he spoke to her: like he knew something she didn’t. But, that was probably true.

But all Feyre could see for the rest of the day were the heavy bags under his eyes, so dark they looked like bruises.


	3. Chapter 3

"Bloody Hell Rhysand," he heard Cassian say. "You've got some balls."

He turned to Azriel, who'd been silent the entire time. "And you? What d'you think?"

His spymaster looked up at him, unblinking.

"I think you are a fool", he said simply.

Rhys flopped back in his chair, his hand digging into the pocket of his waistcoat for a cigarette.

"The way I see it", he said, lighting it, "Tamlin's never going to stop. He won't be finished till all our houses are burned and our men are dead."

"Not if you let me go at him n' his dogs", Cassian mumbled, leaning against the wall in his parlor room.

"Not yet. Not yet", Rhys breathed. "I at least want to try diplomacy first, before you go smash their small heads in."

Cassian smiled.

"We need them", Rhysand stressed.

Azriel ran his hand through his hair. "I know she's family, Rhys. But working with Mor would make things too complicated. She hadn't treated you the same since we got back. And only God knows what she's been doing while we were away."

"What other option have I got?"

All three of them were silent.

"Shit, mate", Azriel muttered. "I think you're right bout this."

Cassian rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Rhys stoop up, clapping his spymaster on the back. "Good lads", he said, smirking.

"So, first order of business", he continued. "We need to get as much contact with the people she works with as possible if we want to do this right."

"I know a bunch of her guys who work over in Camden. I can go there and try and talk to them."

"Good, good. Tell them bad things are coming. Tell them Tamlin's making plans."

"You got it", Cassian said, leaving for the door.

"I'll go get intel on what he's doing", Azriel said.

"Alright. Be careful."

Azriel nodded, then followed Cassian out the door.

Rhys walked to the counter, grabbing his coat.

He had other business to attend too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feyre glanced at the small clock in her bedroom. Mor had been gone three days, on whatever business deal she was making.

She'd left Feyre in charge of the house, thinking it gave her more 'purpose'.

It did not.

The only company she'd received was from Rhysand, and she didn't even know him. Personally, at least.

From the rumors she'd heard, he was cruel. He could walk into a store and get things for free. He never paid for his drinks, and the copper that were in the the area looked to him for the law.

It was unbelievable.

She'd also heard the stories of the war, and how he and his men were much, much different.

Then again, the war affected all of the people, not only the boys forced to grow up to fast.

Like her, for example.

She glanced at her exposed shoulder, her nightdress hanging loosely.

The scar still remained.

She shut her eyes.

 _No_.

Willing herself not to think about it, she padded down the dark hall to the stairs, headed toward the kitchen.

Even in the empty house, filled only with secrets, she still felt on edge.

She poured a cup of tea, and rummage through the bread basket.

She'd need to go to the market, unless she felt like eating a stale loaf.

"You need more bread", a deep voice called from behind her.

She jumped, cursing.

Turning around, she looked at Rhys, who was slouched in one of the wooden chairs by the small kitchen table.

She wrapped her hands around herself.

_Bloody hell I'm only in a nightdress._

"What the hell are you doing?! This isn't your house!"

He rolled his eyes. "Neither is it yours."

She backed away. "Get out."

Rhys stood up. "Relax. I'm not here to hurt you. I came to ask a favor."

Feyre leaned against the counter, loosening up slightly. "I don't do favors", she snarled.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Then don't think of it as a favor. Think of it as work."

She squinted her eyes. "I fear I don't follow..."

"Look", he said, walking over to hear. She watched as his blue eyes widened when he took in the scar running across her shoulder.

She could tell he was thinking.

She covered her shoulder with her arm.

“Continue”, she said.

His eyes snapped back to hers, the questions in them fading away.

“Are you aware of a man called Tamlin?”

“I’ve heard the name, yes”, she said.

“Well then you’ll understand when I say that he is threatening both of our..businesses.”

“How so?”

“He’s begun taking over places where my men do their work. Business and trade. He’s coming after Mor’s as well.”

She said nothing. He went on.

“A few nights ago some of his cronies went at it with some of your cousins guys at a pub down near Greenwich.”

Feyre paled. She knew what would come next. “So you are at war with him?”

Rhys tensed. “Yes. Well, not exactly. I’m trying to arrange a deal with him. That’s where you come in.”

Feyre rubbed her eyes. “I think you ought to wait until Mor gets back to discuss the politics of criminal activity.”

He let out a sigh. “Don’t you see? It’s not my cousin I need, it’s you.”

“Explain, _more_.”

Rhysand ran a hand through his seemingly perfect hair. “Tamlin wants what he can’t have. You seem like a smart girl, surely you’ve picked that up.”

She rolled her eyes, nodded. “But what can’t he have?”

“Again, that’s where you come in, darling”, he said with a wink.

She tensed. Then, it all sank in. “You plan to _use_ me?”

“It’s less than ideal”, he said, cringing. “But I know him. He’s more likely to strike up a deal with me if I can...bribe him.”

Both of them were silent.

Then she erupted. “ ** _Have you lost your bloody mind?!”_**

“Christ, I didn’t–”

“ ** _Do you think I can be passed around like a–”_**

“ ** _No_** ”, Rhys snarled. “That is not what I am suggesting here. I need you to stay by my side. If Tamlin’s like any other rational human being, he’ll see how....”

Rhysand mumbled. “He’ll see how, I don’t know, desirable you are. Then he’ll cooperate if If I offer–”

“Offer me like a tray of biscuits?”

“Jesus”, he said. “I’m not going to let him have you. If you’d just trust me then-”

“Why would I trust you? Especially when Mor isn’t around. This is ridiculous.”  
  
He leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

“We are on the same side here. If I don’t make this deal, then you can kiss London goodbye.”

Feyre looked at him, closely. He looked tired. He looked angry. Pained.

“How deep is the trouble your in?”

He smiled. “Very deep.”

She chewed on her lip.

“Fine.”

He pushed off the wall, his smile fading. “Great. Now please, tell me your real name. We’re working together now. I think it’s inappropriate that I don’t know it.”

She was silent for a moment, and then it came out. “Feyre. My name is Feyre.”

He nodded, then walked back the front door.

“Well then, Feyre. You’d better get ready, because tonight we are going out on the town.”

With that, he was gone.

 _Shit_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Feyre stood in front of her mirror, Mor's voice ringing in her head.

_Don't give him your personal information. I don't know what he'll do._

And what had she done? She'd given Rhysand, a mysterious and overly dramatic gang leader, her _bloody fucking name._

"Christ", she said a loud, as she zipped up the back of her dress.

It was dark blue, and clung tight to her chest at the top, but filled out at the bottom and stopped at her calves.

She'd managed to brush out her hair, and it ran down her back in waves, despite everyone telling her she really ought to cut it.

All she was supposed to do was sit and look pretty. As if she were were a docile little lamb.

She scoffed. Turning to grab her coat, she slid on her black heeled shoes.

Feyre heard the door open downstairs.

"Ready?" A voice called.

She didn't answer, but descended the wooden steps. Rhysand stood in the small kitchen in an suit, his hat in his hands.

He swallowed when he saw her.

"We'll be taking my car", he said, gesturing to the street outside.

Feyre nodded, grabbing her long coat. She motioned him forward, and they made their way toward the car parked out front.

Once he began driving, she would steal the occasional glance at him.

With his eyes on the small country road, he looked at..peace.

He wasn't as tense as she'd seen him before. Almost as if he felt at home among the fields that took up the land between London and Tamlin's countryside mansion.

"See something you like", he asked, his voice scratchy.

Feyre looked away. "Not really."

He laughed.

"You just look different, is all."

He raised his brows, his eyes still focused on the dirt road.

"How so?"

Feyre tapped her chin, adjusting in the seat.

"At ease, I suppose. Perhaps it's because we're out of the city air. Probably does everyone good."

Rhysand was silent for a minute.

"I like it out here because its quiet. No guns. No explosions. No noise. Just the wind and the flowers."

Feyre looked at him quizzically. "What d'you mean? There aren't explosions in London."

Again, he was silent for a while.

"For me there are."

In that moment, it came together. He wasn't talking about actual explosions or gunfire.

It was the war. And he was ruined.

Her face burned. She felt like an idiot. She opened her mouth, but he beat her to it.

"Do you know what it was like?" He said, his grip on the steering wheel getting tighter. "Day after day, ears ringing cause of all the bloody noises?"

Here it came. She was familiar with it. The built up anger slipping out.

"Rhys..."

He was getting louder, and she tensed. This was it. That side of him she'd been warned about.

"I understand", she said, looking at him.

He laughed. "Were you in France, Feyre? Have you ever killed a man?"

He shook his head in anger, as if she were nothing compared to him. As if she didn't have her own demons. Her own nightmares.

"Yes", she said.

He almost stopped a car. He whipped his head around to meet her stare.

His blue eyes were wild, as if he were living it. The fighting and brutality and whatever else he'd gone through.

"To which?"

"Both", she found herself saying.

He swallowed, and Feyre felt compelled to tell him why.

"I killed a man near Verdun." Her voice was shaking, and if she didn't stop know, she didn't know if she'd be able to.

"It's alright", he muttered, turning down another road.

The anger in his voice was gone. Now he just sounded pained.

An estate was in the distance. "We'll talk later."

She nodded, silent the rest of the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhys and Feyre walked up the steps, and halted before knocking.

"You understand", Rhys began, "that you have a role to play. One that I _need_ you to play."

"Yes", she said.

He looked her up and down. "This sound be easy. You dressed for the part, I see."

She rolled her eyes. With that, he knocked on the door.

After a minute, it opened. A man stood in a crisp suit, with long red hair and patch over one of his eyes.

He must have lost it in the war.

He surveyed them in silence for a minute, looking them over. "Tamlin", he called, turning back to the house.

He looked back at them. "Come in."

Rhys walking in first, and pulled Feyre in behind him, his hand holding her coat, tugging her close.

His eyes seemed to say "play along."

So she would.

She looped her arm through his, as a tall man came down the spiral stair case. He was tall, with long hair pulled back in a tight bun.

"Ah", he said. His voice was gruff. "Rhysand. I honestly can say I'm surprised you showed up. Your not very...loyal."

She watched as Rhysand rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool.

"Hello Tamlin. It's a nice place you've got yourself. Way nicer then the trenches, eh?"

Tamlin smirked. "In this house, Rhysand, we don't like to discuss matters like the war."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid", he said, his eyes roaming over Feyre, "it triggers unpleasant memories. Why are you so bent on talking about it?”

"Well", Rhysand said, strolling further into the house, "I wanted to know if you remembered the good old days, hey? You know, when we were barely men, singing in the mud? I only want you to remember our camaraderie , before all this business talk.”

Tamlin looked at him, silent. "Tell me then, Rhys. Have the noises left your head? D'you still hear the shouting? Still see the boys dying?"

Rhys was quick to answer. "Whenever I shut my eyes."

Tamlin decided that conversation was done, as he looked back at Feyre. "Who've you got here?"

Rhys scoffed, but Feyre knew he'd anticipated this.

“Some things never change, I see. Anyway, this is Feyre. If all goes well, you might get the chance to meet her properly."

Tamlin smirked. Feyre felt her blood boil. Already, she hated him.

"This way", Tamlin gestured, leading them into a large drawing room on the left.

For someone so evil, the room was surprisingly nice.

The walls were the lightest pink, decorated with pale blue and yellow flowers. A piano was sat in the corner, next to the tall windows that overlooked the sprawling gardens.

They sat in the plush, cushioned chairs laid out, tea ready on the small table in the center.

“Please", said Tamlin, motioning to the cups as he sat back.

Feyre knew the stance. On the outside, it was his job to play it cool. But she could tell by the look in his eyes he felt threatened.

"Actually", Feyre said, "I'm more of a wine type of girl."

Rhys choked, covering it with a cough.

Tamlin's eyes widened, surprise masking his features. "Well," He said. "She speaks!"

"Alis", he called.  A maid came running in. "Fetch this woman some wine, please. Red."

The woman nodded.

"So," Rhys began. "Let's talk business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late, I had surgery!! Hope you all enjoy!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up, this chapter is a little more sensitive.

"So", Tamlin drawled, "why are you here?"

Rhys still didn't meet his eyes, stirring his teacup before him.

“As you know,” he began, "some of my cousins boys got in a scuffle with yours not too long ago. I'm told there was a death."

Tamlin nodded. "Unfortunately, one of your dear cousin’s men didn't make it out."

"Now the thing I find interesting,” Rhys said, "was that no body was recovered. D'you what that means?"

Tamlin rolled his eyes. "It was probably thrown in the Thames. But enlighten me."

"It means that I can't trust you."

"You never have."

"D'you know why I'm here, mate?"

"I thought you just told me."

"I'm here as a warning. If you keep doing business down by my end, we're gonna keep having problems. And if more of my men are the price, there's going to be war."

Tamlin scoffed, Feyre raised her brow.

"First of all, Morrigan's men, not yours. Second of all, why the hell would you bother with a turf war when you've got those bags under your eyes?"

Rhys was silent. Tamlin continued.

"You probably dream of war every night, and not the pleasant kind. Why are you so keen on fighting where all you want to do is get away from it?"

Rhysand looked pale. "Because I'm good at it," he said.

Tamlin sat back. "Alright. I'll keep my business in my parts, you've gotten your point across."

He switched his attention to Feyre. "So", he smirked. "Is this your whore?"

Feyre tensed.

_An act. She had an act to keep up with._

She saw Rhysand look at her out of the corner of her eye. She knew he didn't like it as much as she did.

"It's a way to...seal the deal. You keep your word, you get her. Clear?"

"Crystal", Tamlin said, keeping his eyes in Feyre.

She wanted to rip out his fucking throat.

"Right then", Rhys said, standing. "I'll leave you too it. I'll be back later."

He left the room, closing the doors behind him.

Feyre shivered, looking back at Tamlin. He smiled.

 _Fuck_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhys didn't come to make a fucking deal. That was the stupidest shit he'd ever come up with. No, he needed to use Feyre as a distraction while he got what he was looking for.

Even if it made him twinge with guilt.

He ducked down a hall, desperate to find Tamlin's office. If he could find evidence, of any kind, of Tamlin's dirty business, then he'd be able to get not only Mor on his side, but other groups too.

He just needed to find it.

He turned down another hall, and stumbled into a room.

Ah. He'd found it.

A large wooded desk was set up across the floor from him, and fireplace behind it.

The room was large, but Rhys set his eyes in the filing cabinets.

Perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Do you want to hear a story", Tamlin murmured.

Feyre sat back, pretending to be calm. She batted her eyelashes.

"Yes."

He smiled, and again, the predatory gleam in his eyes made her want to vomit.

"Do you like flowers?"

Again, another odd question. But still, she played along.

"I like some. I like bluebells."

His features darkened.

_Wrong thing to say? All she said was bluebells..._

He stood up, staring down at her. "Take off your clothes."

His voice was guttural.

Again, that nauseous feeling. She'd been here before.

" _Take it off". The soldier staggered toward her._

_"Bitte", she said, her broken german the only thing that might save her._

_"Off", he growled again._

_She screamed as another gunshot sounded through the house._

_"OFF!"_

Feyre blinked, standing up.

It was an act.

Not real.

Tamlin walked towards her.

"Did you hear me? Take off your clothes."

Feyre couldn't help backing away as he came closer.

Fuck him, Rhysand, and the bloody soldier. She’d been an idiot to agree to this.

"You stupid _bit_ –"

He lunged at her, his hands aiming toward her throat.

She ducked, and he stumbled forward. She looked around for anything. Finally, she spotted a glass flower vase atop the piano.

As he turned around, his face red and his teeth barred at her, she grabbed the vase and dumped the contents on him.

She was tempted to laugh. He was soaking wet and covered in rose petals.

" _ **How dare–**_ "

Feyre ran toward him, smashing it on his head.

He fell into heap on the floor, silent.

She brushed her hands together, and took a deep breath. Blood oozed from his head.

Good.

She whipped around as the doors pushed open.

Rhys looked frantic. "I heard a noise", he said.

He followed her gaze toward the floor, and paled as he surveyed Tamlin.

"I'm done here", Feyre said, stepping over the glass shards on the floor.

She brushed past him, but he caught her arm.

"Feyre", he began.

He reached with his hand to brush tear off her face. She didn't even know she was crying.

"Get away from me", she said. "I'm done."

She pushed past him, back into the entrance hall and out the front door.

She heard his footsteps behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They drive down the road in silence for a few minutes before Rhysand spoke.

"I made a mistake. I shouldn't have used you like I did."

And he did mean it. Since the war, he hadn't taken interest in anyone, and thought he wouldn’t care.

But he was wrong. So wrong.

He'd heard the vase smash and felt his heart drop in his chest. He hadn't felt that type of scare since France.

He had never even bothered to find any evidence of Tamlin’s schemes either. Feyre was his only worry at the moment.

He looked at her, taking his eyes off the road for a minute.

The moon was illuminating her face. He didn't even know it was so late.

Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she was cold.

He knew she wasn't.

"I lived in a small house near Verdun with my father and sisters,” she said eventually, her voice empty. “We moved there from Bristol when my mother died."

Rhys said nothing, but he figured he knew where this was going.

"They killed him", she said softly. "My sisters had left already, and they left me and my father to die."

Again, he said nothing.

"And then one night soldiers came. They were german. They killed my father and tried to get away with hurting me. You know how it goes."

He tried not to grimace as her voice broke.

"So, I killed him and ran. I shot him. And I thought I was used to it. I could hear all the fighting from where we lived. The explosions as you said."

He took a hand off the steering wheel and reached for one of hers. She took it.

"But tonight, when that rat told my to take off my clothes, something inside me snapped."

"I don't know what I was thinking, Feyre. I don't know why I thought it was acceptable for me to use you like that. I'll leave you alone, if you like. No more work."

He took her silence as a yes, and although it made something inside him break, he could understand it.

He'd been a fool.

"No", she said at last.

_No?!_

He looked at her again.

"I'm glad you understand why I'm upset. But I'm not going to let him stop me from helping. I owe it to Mor."

He nodded.

"She's the one who helped me get back to England. I owe her my life."

He nodded again, but was still brought back to something else.

“Feyre”, he began, “when Tamlin called you a whore..”

She glanced at him, and shook her head. “I’ve been called worse.

“But I don’t care. He called you a whore and I didn’t say anything do defend you. I let you be disrespected and now I feel like shit.”

“Rhys”, she said, and he tried to ignore how the way she said his name made him feel.

“Thank you for saying that. But I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

He shook his head, but acknowledged her.

“I know. But so you know, if I could go back in time, I probably would have cut him up.”

She laughed, and he realized he wanted to hear that sound for the rest of his life.

“I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! more soon :)


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